Page 108 of The Witch in the Dead of Night

“And the woman?”

“Aminata. A gifted witch, and a perfectionist to boot. She co-authored several compendia of magic that were wildly popular among academics across the distant reaches of the kingdoms. She even defined the three fundamental tenets.”

“I’m familiar.”

“I’m pleased to hear it. Aminata didn’t invent them, of course, but she was the first to truly explore them and define them to the world as the foundation upon which magical scholarship should be based. She gathered quite a following, constantly fielding invitations from foreign lords to serve in the wealthiest courts, but it never went to her head. She remained at Hollybrook for a century before leaving to continue her pursuits full time for the next five hundred years of her life.”

I stared up at her face, recalling my conversation with Mordric in the palace gardens. It seemed so long ago now. “How old was she when she died?”

“Around eight centuries, I believe.”

I picked at a loose thread on my sleeve. I didn’t know what one was supposed to do with all that time. Create a compendium or two, I supposed. “Are there any witches enrolled at Hollybrook now?” I wondered aloud.

He sighed. “Not for many years. Your talents are growing rarer by the day, it seems.”

My brow creased. “Why do you think that is?”

“There are many theories,” he said. “In its earliest form, magic was presumed to be a gift from the gods in exchange for unfaltering worship. But as the world has evolved, we’ve grown less reliant on them. Perhaps the gods have taken offense.”

“I’ve never been particularly religious.”

He shrugged. “As I said, there are many theories.”

“And you?” I asked, pausing by the glass Ivor’s feet. “What is your specialty?”

“History, of course,” he said. “It helps that I am so ancient.”

I grinned. “I suppose it does.”

I tolerated his continuing tour as well as I could over the next hour, flipping the letter over and over nervously in my hands. When it was finally over, I darted back to my quarters as quickly as I could. Arriving in my bedchamber, I clumsily pried the seal apart with my knife, the wax breaking into shards with a satisfying snap. Unfolding the letter, I stared at the curved, elegant handwriting of the King.

Dearest Finn,

I am writing to you in the hopes that my letter finds you well-rested after your journey. I received a note from Lord Bryon that you had made it to Barringham without incident some nights ago, so I knew it was only a matter of days before you arrived at Hollybrook. You must tell me how you’re finding it. My apologies again that I was unable to secure you suitable accommodation for the entirety of your travels. Very few of our trusted allies live further north than Barringham. I hope that you will not hold the cold nights against me.

Things are well enough in Valnar, although decidedly more boring with you gone. I’ve been pulled into yet another series of meetings with the council, who spend most of their time bickering like clucking hens. I yearn for the days when I could be so easily distracted by a beautiful witch who was only a short distance away at all times. Alas, I must settle for impatiently awaiting your return.

By now you will have become acquainted with Chancellor Sorrell and Vice-Chancellor Cartwright. Ivor is an excellent teacher, and I’m sure you will learn much under his tutelage. I ask you to follow their instructions closely and to not resist the gifts with which you’ve been blessed. Remember that they, and I, have your best interests at heart.

Good luck.

Yours,

Mordric

I ran my finger over his signature. The lines were so poised, the words so formal. Except for one, I yearn for the days when I could be so easily distracted by a beautiful witch who was only a short distance away at all times. I grinned. I re-read his letter until the words blurred together. Holding the parchment to my nose, I inhaled the scent of dried ink and roses. I wondered if he bore the marks of our correspondence on his hands, the black ink smeared across the porcelain canvas of his skin like a tattoo.

I missed him terribly, and yet, when I finally put a quill to paper to respond, I found that I had nothing to say.

I curled up in a corner of the library as rain rapped its knuckles against the window. I yawned, pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes. I’d been startled awake in the early hours of the morning by a dream in which I set the tangled copse of trees outside my window alight with blue flame. I pored over a tome on ancient symbols, searching for anything that could explain why I found the trees so unsettling.

Native to the lowlands of the Northern Kingdoms, the yew is closely associated with death and balance. Its red fruits may be eaten by some woodland creatures, however the yew is poisonous to humans and most livestock. This has perhaps bolstered its association with mortality. Yew trees can oft be found in graveyards and are considered by some to be a gateway to the Underworld. Ferinor, God of the Afterlife, has often been said to carry a yew branch in his pocket.

“Nonsense,” I muttered, as the chapter came to an end.

I flipped through the pages, pausing at the sight of something familiar: a pentagram. I traced the points of it with my finger, recalling what I had witnessed in the blacksmith’s cellar. My attention flicked to the passage below the image.

The earliest usage of the pentagram is linked to ancient magical sects that went extinct approximately six thousand years before the rule of King Daemon. Some scholars believe that the five points symbolize the oldest deities: Letlas, King of Gods; Althan, his queen; Nerisa, Goddess of the Sea; Bialar, Goddess of Fortune; and Ferinor, God of the Afterlife. Inextricably linked together, these gods symbolize power, balance, and invocation.